| TED KRUCKEL 07.19.06 |
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| The Hamptons Hustle |
| Trying to avoid all the dum-dums stuck in traffic, I'm hunting for house parties—and some are better than others. |
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 | | You can't see the earthmover still outside, but here's everybody on the still-wet sod at the Hampton Designer Showhouse. |
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I call them "Hampsters," people who come to the east end of Long Island in the summer season, driving like maniacs to get here so that they can get early dibs running on the little metal wheel.
I used to call them lemmings, like those rodents that follow each other off the cliffs, an analogy that came to me as I observed one of the massive daily traffic jams on Route 27. A few seasons back, Jodi Della Femina began publishing Jodi's Shortcuts, and like all things Della Femina (unfairly, to this fan), soon came under blistering attack because her book of maps and back roads would ruin the quiet countryside. Well, I'm here to tell you, 80 percent of the "roadents" are too dumb to even buy the book, preferring to sit in mile after mile of avoidable bumper-to-bumper crawls rather than turn either right or left to find a parallel route.
But then I learned that the lemmings—the real ones, that is—had gotten
a bum rap in those nature TV shows. It seems some inventively fiendish
nature videographers got the idea of chasing them to the edge of the
chasm, and beyond, in pursuit of a memorable shot. Apparently, left to
their own devices, lemmings do not go hurling themselves into the abyss
for no reason. Not so the Hampsters.
They wait for up to an hour to be seated for breakfast at Candy Kitchen
in Bridgehampton. Call me crazy, but pancakes are pancakes, no? They
flock late at night to the new eastern outpost of New York nightspot
the Pink Elephant in Southampton, where the attractions include being roughed up by the bodyguard team of midget buxom temptress Jessica Simpson, or grabbing a glimpse of Star Jones Reynolds'
unsightly and unshod hooves up (woof!) and pawing the upholstered
furniture in a (one assumes) vain attempt to arouse formerly confirmed
bachelor Al Reynolds.
Since her husband Peter Cook's campaign to woo a 19-year-old by leaving money under the hedgerows (you can't make this stuff up) has taken Christie Brinkley off the circuit, Kelly Ripa
has stepped in with a vengeance, not to mention makeup so heavy you can
see the shimmer 20 feet away. "She needs to be camera-ready at all
times," a House & Garden spokesperson explained to me. Mais bien sur, but where is Mr. De Mille when you're that ready?
I caught Ms. Ripa and her maquillage at this year's Hampton Designer Showhouse presented by House & Garden and benefiting the Southampton Hospital, an event I've attended off and on for 20 years, and the times they are a-changing.
Traditionally, the showhouse was staged at some old white elephant that
everyone was familiar with. Everyone understood that this was a way to
get otherwise unsalable merchandise moving on the real estate market,
but the sites were always interesting estates, the kind you had driven
by for years and wondered who lived there.
Now that 20,000-square-foot houses are a dime a dozen out here, one
need not wait 'til some dowager kicks the bucket to find next year's
party palace. A builder will make you one, called a "spec" house. Built
on "speculation," and turned over to showhouse organizers for a season
to let decorators run rampant creating over-the-top rooms with donated
merchandise, the builder hopes that the ensuing foot traffic and
publicity will yield some sucker willing to lay down $20 million on an
airplane hangar in a potato field (or, in this case, a Bridgehampton
18,000-square-foot shingle house in the Arts & Crafts style).
Whether or not this pays off, I 'can't say, but as a seasoned observer,
I'm here to tell ya that these places get more and more "spec" every
year.
It is known that showhouses come together in a frenzy of last minute
hustling, possibly amplified by the plethora of extreme decorating TV
shows where everyone runs around zanily trying to beat the clock
redoing an entire manse, all while the unsuspecting family eats lunch
at a nearby Applebee's. Call me crazy part deux, but don't I want the building/decorating of my home to take more than a day or two?
Perhaps as a way to enhance the race-to-the-finish excitement, this
year's organizers chose to leave an earthmover and a dumpster—a large,
overflowing one at that—on the front lawn to help welcome guests.
Part of the 11th-hour craziness for these events is getting some
landscaping in. One year I remember that shrubs and perennials were put
in place still in their burlap root bags. But a touch of whimsy—a
stylish variety of matching ribbons on each newbie plant—begged
forgiveness and pulled it off. This year, the ribbon budget presumably
having been cut, plants were simply placed in rows in the black plastic
containers that had displayed them at Waldbaum's.
Entertainment value aside, this same speedy installation was less
amusing when it came to the freshly laid muddy sod (it was a dry and
clear day), which ruined (at least for the night) my Belgian loafers
and just about every other pricey pair of kickers I saw. The problem
here was that you had to tread back through the house to exit. At least
the muddy trail provided a Hansel and Gretelish path to escape (the
house was otherwise, despite being a summer beach dwelling, seemingly
without egress to the out-of-doors). Who gets to take credit for this,
I'm not sure.
DeJuan Stroud
(whom I've worked with) is listed as the florist for the event, and the
flowers inside the home seemed tasteful and appropriate.
The food and service, provided by Callahan Catering,
deserve a nod. The watermelon cocktails were invitingly trayed, as were
the hors d'oeuvres. But most impressive, standing with my old college
buddy Jill (a new first-time mom who was refreshingly
free of baby photos) for a 10-minute catch up, I was approached by no
fewer than five waiters, including wine refillers. I tried to meet
owner Peter Callahan, but he was too busy, which seemed just right.
Thankfully, our muddy, grassy selves were evacuated expertly by Advanced Parking Concepts, an improvement over last year noticed by many.
Once in the car and en route to another party, one turns, as one must
always do, to the host-provided directions, hoping to avoid the
Hampsters, and those provided by Democrats of the Hamptons Unite benefiting Mark Green for Attorney General were so exact that my guest and I found ourselves arriving a tad early at the harborfront manse of Gail Furman.
Something tells me that the no-nonsense missive was provided by Ms.
Furman herself, as she seems quite the pro; she's doing another of
these next week for wheelchair-bound Vietnam hero Max Cleland.
Everything was just right for this more exclusive gathering, where L.B.J. biographer Robert Cato and Hillary Clinton pal Judith Hope served as introducers. Actor Bob Balaban was among the guests, but our favorite booster was local legend Leif Hope, founder and organizer of the annual Artists & Writers softball game, which benefits East End Hospice et al, scheduled for this year on August 19.
I made the mistake of saying I didn't go to the game anymore due to its
ruination by (who else?) celebrities. Mr. Hope (husband of Judith),
agreed with me on how celebrities suck, but then gave me an informed
10-minute lecture on the worthiness of the cause. Okay, Leif (whose
Norwegian family has its own island), this year I'm on.
Mr. Hope is also the eponymous proprietor of this year's hot Hamptons restaurant, Leif Hope, with chef Scott Jaffe of Napeague,
whose previous kitchen work I can vouch for. Thankfully, these two
provided simple but ample salmon on potato pancakes with crème fraîche
and some beef horseradish item. The bar was serve-yourself, nice for a
change.
Finally, I owe a late mention of a memorable evening at the home of Carole and Fred Guest benefiting the Southampton Rose Society.
The rain was torrential, so the rose garden viewing was limited, but
those who braved the dripping tent had fun. This is a society event,
with the kind of people who used to go to the Southampton Showhouse, so
men wore jackets and not those ubiquitous striped Paul Smith shirts (please, guys, give them, and our eyes, a rest). Adrienne Vittadini,
one of the world's chicest and nicest women, advised me on raffle and
silent auction items, and now I have a new watch to show for it—which I
guess I'll wear to the softball game, provided they send good
directions.
Posted 07.19.06
Photo: Patrick McMullan (showhouse), Barry Gordin (DJ), Diane Vahradian (Vittadini/Guest)
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